Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 45284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
“I don’t understand why they would think that.”
“They followed me here.”
“I don’t understand why you were…”
“Just do what I say, please.”
A note of humanity enters his voice on the last word. I could still say no, but I have nowhere else to stay. It’s late. I’ll end up wandering the streets of London alone, and if what Thomas said is true, that would be a bad idea.
“Fine,” I tell him, “but I’ll be finding my own place tomorrow, just so you know.”
“Fine,” he grunts.
I grab my last T-shirt and shove it into the suitcase. “There… done. Now what?”
“Now, we leave.”
Sitting beside him in the car, I feel like I’m inches away from a wild animal. He grabs the steering wheel hard, his forearms twitching with muscle, his jaw pulsing. He doesn’t look at me, instead staring at the road.
“It still feels weird going the wrong way,” I murmur, trying for some conversation and small talk to make this less weird. I can still taste the kiss and haven’t stopped wanting more. Is that all, though, or is there more going on?
“Maybe you go the wrong way,” my grumpy man says with a passing smirk.
“Thomas, will you tell me why you were at my house and why you kissed me?”
“You don’t need an explanation for that,” he snaps. “Kissing you… It’s obvious why I’d want to do that.”
A glow spreads through me, completely out of place since I should be freaking out right now. I should be demanding that he let me out so I can call Mom or Dad or Emma—somebody to let them know what’s happening. With fifty-two billion, Thomas could do anything he wanted with me. Take me anywhere. Keep me his prisoner.
“I’m sure you’ve kissed prettier women,” I say.
He grunts.
“What does that mean?” I press.
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“Uh… Yeah, but it’s warranted here.”
“I haven’t kissed more attractive women than you, Amelia.”
“Hmm.”
He glances at me. “What’s hmm?”
I fold my arms again. His intense eyes flit to my chest, and I realize I’m pushing my breasts together with the movement. He seems to like this, eyes widening. It’s almost like I can sense his hunger.
“You’re a billionaire. You’re… well, you know…”
“Do I?”
“I’m not saying I feel this way, but objectively, you’re attractive. Other women would agree on that.” I swallow, looking out the window.
He laughs huskily. “But not you?”
“Nope.”
“How strange. I seem to remember you being pretty bloody enthusiastic when we kissed.”
“You imagined that,” I lie.
He laughs again, clearly not believing me, and I like that. I like he can see through my bull crap.
“Yeah, sure I did.”
“I guess if you’ve got as much kissing experience as you have, it’s easy to tell, right?”
He looks at me with that indulgent smirk and then offers a slight eye roll. It’s a surprisingly boyish expression on his grumpy, mature face—not old, but mature, a few lines to add to his handsomeness.
“Are you determined to piss me off?” he says, but with a jokey tone that tells me he’s not actually pissed off.
No, miraculously, we’re able to banter and share some closeness.
“You won’t talk to me about anything else,” I tell him. “You won’t explain. So yeah, I’ll settle for annoying you, but please, don’t lie to me. We both know you’ve kissed more attractive women than me.”
“You’re too beautiful to have self-esteem this low.”
Another warm glow whelms within me, expanding so that pleasure shimmers through me, teasing at what might come when we get somewhere private. It should be the least of my concerns right now, at the bottom of the list, but it’s not. It’s at the top, demanding that I find a way to kiss him again and take it further this time.
It’s this instinct deep inside, as if—okay, this is nutso—my womb is talking to me and telling me, “Hey, buddy, this is the one. This man is yours, and you are his. So just shut up and do whatever it takes to sleep with him.” I can’t listen to that voice, and anyway, that’s just plain craziness, thinking stuff like my womb is talking to me.
“It’s not about low self-esteem,” I tell him. “I actually like the way I look. I’ve got no issues with it, but let’s face it. I’m on the curvier side. I haven’t got sleek, long model legs. I’m not a movie star when it comes to the face, either, right? That’s all I’m saying. So, statistically, you’ve definitely kissed prettier people. That’s all.”
When he stops at a red light, he turns and leans over, his breath warm on my face.
“You’ve just explained why you’re the hottest woman I’ve ever kissed, touched, or been close to, but I don’t want to talk about other women. Just you, with your perfect curves, gorgeous thick legs, gorgeous smile, and cute American accent.”
I whimper when he leans in and presses his lips against mine, annoyed at myself for the noise. It’s as if I’m telling him he can do whatever he wants, treat me any way he likes—lie to me, get me involved with criminals—and I’ll always kiss him. I’ll always be addicted to the taste of his lips, the hunger in each movement of his tongue. The thing is, it’s true. The second I taste him, the arguments and the questions melt away… for now.